


Movement Nouveau Presents: Guyselle

by gyozanohime



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Aged-Up Yuri Plisetsky, Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ballet Dancer Katsuki Yuuri, Ballet Dancer Victor Nikiforov, Ballet Dancer Yuri Plisetsky, Blood (minor), Broadway, Broken Bones, Farce, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Humor, Implied Sexual Content, Lilia Baronovskaya's POV, Long-Haired Victor Nikiforov, M/M, Minor Injuries, Other, Sexual References, Slightly Producers-esque, ballet dancer Jean-Jacques Leroy, ballet dancer otabek altin, everyone is 18+, no one dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2018-06-27
Packaged: 2019-05-29 09:54:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15070637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gyozanohime/pseuds/gyozanohime
Summary: Lilia Baranovskaya tells Christophe Giacometti, in no uncertain terms, that no classical choreographer would take him seriously, least of all her. It's not until after the divorce, when Christophe seeks her out during the intermission forTale of the Sleeping Prince, while Lilia is very bored and a little drunk, that getting out of Moscow feels like a great idea. Once the announcement is made, there's no turning back:Programme!: Broadway's Giacometti Announces Next ProjectGuyselle, Ex-Bolshoi Prima to ChoreographIn which Lilia discovers that producing a show with Christophe is not for the feint of art.





	Movement Nouveau Presents: Guyselle

_CRACK._

Lilia's heart sinks as she watches JJ crumple to the floor, hands clamped over his nose as if he’s afraid it’s going to fall off. Victor, meanwhile, lands his grand jeté as if his pointe shoe had hit nothing but air.

“Oh, dear,” Christophe murmurs beside her before taking a sip of his espresso. “Ah, Sara is a genius with that machine.” The ceramic cup clinks gently as he sets it down on its saucer. “I can never get it right.” The young Broadway producer doesn't look nearly as upset as Lilia thinks he should, considering JJ is supposed to be their Duke Albrecht.

”That's going to bruise, at the very least,” observes Mila, the stage manager, already hurrying down the theater aisle. “Do you think he’ll need a doctor? I’d better go take a look.”

JJ's groans can be clearly heard from where they’re sitting today, in center orchestra. In fact, Lilia thinks, they can probably be heard up in the fourth balcony. She purses her lips and sets aside the costume designs Emil is proposing. “I didn’t make half as much fuss when I broke my ankle.” She’d danced through the pain until intermission, when her understudy took over.

Emil collects the designs and places them in a folder for later review. “He’ll look like _jelito_ tomorrow—er, blood pudding.” Lilia agrees; no doubt some of the dancer’s pain comes from that knowledge. “We can discuss these later. You both have digital copies as well.” He makes a beeline for the exit after a parting, “ _Hodně štěstí_.”

“We’d better go survey the damage, then.” Lilia stands.

Christophe slips the contract he was reading into a portfolio and sighs, “If we must.” He folds up his wire frame glasses, tucks them into his front pocket and follows Lilia up the aisle, bringing his drink along. “ _Branleur_. It’s a good thing,” he notes, “that Leroy didn’t become a hockey player.” They make their way onto the stage, Lilia’s boots clicking on the floor as they near the injured dancer.

Lilia hears Christophe take another grating sip as they watch Isabella, one of the stagehands, fuss over the Canadian dancer. She turns to her “Guiselle” and pins him with her sternest glare, the one that used to make her students quake. “Vitya, really?” It seems to have no effect. “This is the third time since rehearsals began.” And it might be the last, considering the blood-stained tissues being held to the injured man's nose.

JJ glares at Victor and garbles something unintelligible but definitely accusatory in a nasal tone, and Isabella hushes him while she works to staunch the flow of blood.

“Get him out of here, Bella. And Mila, how soon can we get this mess cleaned up?” She gestures to a few drops of blood glistening against the well-lit surface of the stage. “I don’t want anyone falling.” They don’t need anybody _else_ getting injured.

”Already on it, boss!” Mila is far too cheerful for someone working under Josef Karpisek, in Lilia’s opinion, but she is efficient and does what Lilia asks—unlike Victor, who looks completely unabashed.

“It's not my fault,” Victor declares, “that Jenna Jameson shoved his face into my foot instead of hitting his mark.” He offers no more than a shrug as an apology.

JJ shouts something that sounds like, “IdzJehJeh, yusoodprk!” as he’s being led off the stage. Victor doesn't even look his way.

“The point is, Vitya, who is going to be the duke now?”

“Lilia,” another voice says, “Let me be Giselle.” It's Yuri—of course it is. The youth has been chomping at the bit since auditions, though she still wonders if it was a mistake to allow him to be part of such a risky contemporary production. But just as Yakov had predicted, where Victor goes, Yuri follows.

“Yuri Plisetsky, are you telling me you could pretend to be in love with Leroy's Albrecht?”

”Oh, as if that idiot can?” He nods toward Victor, who is on the floor doing a front split without a care in the world. He pulls the band out of his long, silvery hair and shakes it out before switching legs and retying it. “Even the last row of the mezzanine will be able to tell Vitya isn't in love with that ass—with Leroy.” Yuri has a point. Rehearsals had started out well. Victor has always had the ability to express emotions, even if they are not his own. He simply becomes the embodiment of an idea and projects it in his movements. Lately, though, his dancing with JJ has fallen rather flat. Lilia has been trying to find a way to shake him up, even forcing him to take an acting class, as if he were some novice instead of a seasoned professional. Still, Victor has a magnificent career behind him, and even a lackluster Victor Nikiforov is a much bigger draw in America than the relatively unknown Plisetsky.

“Yuri, Giselle is more than leaps and poses; it’s about _expression_.” Yuri is young, has not known heartbreak. “The movements must be deliberate and full of passion or sorrow. The audience has to feel Giselle's love, has to believe that she could die of grief... I have watched you dance since you were five years old. You have all of two expressions, and lovesickness is not one of them.”

Yuri scowls, steps in closer to her and lowers his voice almost to a whisper. “You could let Bekka play Albrecht. I—I know I could do better then _._ ”

Lilia sighs. She knows all about Yuri's friendship, possibly more, with Otabek Altin. And she likes Altin. He's skilled, hungry to prove himself, and he's the only _sensible_ dancer in the lot. But...

”I need him to be Hilarion.”

”Make the old man do it!” Yuri retorts, pointing a finger at Victor, who has moved on to an upright split against the wall.

“Not a chance, kitten,” Victor calls over his shoulder. “You had your chance at auditions. I guess you just came up...short.”

“I’m only two centimeters shorter than you, asshole!” Yuri fumes. “I’m—”

"Yuri Plisetsky,” Lilia cuts him off. “You just proved my point. You have the perfect emotional range to play a vengeful spirit.”

”You are also light and naturally fey,” Chris adds, handing off his empty cup to Mickey, who’s just finished wiping down the stage. “You will look spectacular floating across the stage _en pointe_ , young man.” Chris sweeps his arms wide for effect.

Yuri is not the least appeased, and Lilia thinks he’s being rather ungrateful. “I hope I don't need to remind you that yours is a very difficult, highly coveted role, Mr. Plisetsky. So you will do as I ask, or I will replace you with someone who does.” Lilia hopes Yuri holds his tongue or else they will all be treated to an overly enthusiastic Queen Myrtha, courtesy of Mr. Chulanont. She sees the flash of hurt in those green eyes, fleeting though it is, before Yuri regains control of himself. He doesn't know it yet, but when this ostentatious production is over—and if it doesn’t ruin all of their careers—she hopes he will return to the Bolshoi. Only Vitya is a more accomplished danseur than he, but Yuri has room for growth and could surpass him; he could be something monstrous _and_ beautiful. For now... “Is that understood?”

”Yes, Madame Baranovskaya.”

”And that goes for the rest of you, too,” she addresses the corps. “Especially you, Victor. As a principal, you should be setting a _good_ example.”

Victor just smiles and tucks his flyaways behind an ear. _Honestly, that boy._ Lilia is beginning to understand why Yakov blames him for his hair loss.

”All right. Back to work then. While we wait to hear from Mr. Leroy…Hilarion, you’re up.”

As the cast arranges themselves on or off stage, Victor chats up one of the villagers, mouth forming a heart-like shape at something the other says in response. Struck by inspiration, she taps him on the shoulder and gestures to the nearest wing. “Victor, go backstage and sit in front of a mirror and practice looking like a lovestruck fool. That shouldn’t be hard, with your narcissistic tendencies.”

Victor has the nerve to look affronted.

_____________________________________

  
Lilia despairs over her root vegetable salad.

“You should have gone for the meatloaf,” Christophe reprimands, digging into his steak au poivre. They had broken up for lunch, and the producer had insisted they sit down for a proper meal, taking her along to a café he frequents. They had been promptly seated, though the restaurant was bustling with activity. All around them, servers passed with trays laden with steaming-hot food and ice-chilled drinks.

“It’s not that this doesn’t look good,” she clarifies. The vegetables all look quite fresh. “It’s just…”

”I know, chérie. I know. But it’s going to be great,” Christophe assures her. He takes another mouthful of his steak and chases it with a sip of red wine. “Here, why don’t you have some of mine?” Spearing another piece of medium-rare beef, he offers the fork to her. “We can share.”

”Madame Gazinsky would never have stood for this,” Lilia mutters, batting away Christophe’s offering. “I would have been dismissed, and no one would have felt sorry for me. But we can’t hire just anyone, they need the right proportion and strength.” She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. It doesn't help.

“Do you regret accepting my offer?” Christophe asks, clearly enjoying the side dish of Lilia’s suffering that came with his meal. It’s arranged between the roasted potatoes and _haricots verts_.

“Ask me again after we open,” she replies, finally taking a bite of her food. She had known it wouldn't be easy, that both of their reputations in their respective worlds were on the line. When Christophe had first come to her with the idea of adapting _Giselle_ for a minimalistic modern setting and all-male cast, Lilia had balked. Who would dare do such a thing? Apparently Lilia Mikhailovna Baranovskaya, former prima of the Bolshoi Ballet. She steals a piece of Christophe’s steak with her own fork, and he pretends to be scandalized. “How can you be so calm?” she demands. “You don't even have names for your characters—or a real title.” They had jokingly agreed to use _Guyselle_ as a working title, but Lilia had secured a promise that he would change it.

“This isn't my first rodeo,” he shrugs. He leans an elbow on the table and toys with the simple floral centerpiece. “I'm always being criticized for the shows I produce. I firmly believe things will work out. Shall we get dessert?”

”Well,” Lilia ignores his last question. “I firmly believed that changing Coralli and Perrot's choreography was going to be my biggest and most controversial challenge.” The pressure of such an undertaking still weighs on her. Lilia refused to even consider it at first, but Christophe had given her a pair of tickets to the preview of his all-female adaptation of _Twelfth Night_ on Broadway. The gift had also included a pair of round-trip plane tickets to get her there from Moscow, and Lilia's curiosity had been piqued. The engaging characters, well-written comedic dialogue and overall quality of the production, including the imaginative but tasteful costuming, were a delight. Then, over drinks at Joe Something-or-other's, he had presented a very detailed proposal with all the friendly, mischievous charm a man of Christophe's talents had to offer. She thought he was mad when he confessed he had already commissioned a composer to rework Adam's music—” _You’d love Ketty. She trained at Juilliard_.”—and she told him as much all through his outline for Act I. But as they moved on to Act II, suddenly the man's ideas had begun to make sense. “ _Look_ ,” he had said, “ _I understand perfectly that in classical ballet, the men are there to show off the women. But look at it from my point of view—that is, as an admirer of the male form. Albrecht is supposed to be dancing to his death. Does he look like he's dying to you?_ ” When she conceded his point, he further argued, “ _I'm not trying to disrespect Perrot or Petipa, but why can't the men be shown off, too? And I don't mean leap after leap into the air, because ‘men are big and strong and it's 1841.’ I want graceful poses, and gliding and, and, and_ movement _, both physical and emotional._ ” His enthusiasm and well-made arguments won her over in the end. When the news broke, she and Christophe had both been censured by her peers in the ballet community. The theatrical critics, at least, were reportedly curious and more optimistic. Christophe assured her that in New York City, San Francisco and Los Angeles, they'd have a built-in audience, but she couldn’t help worry that the seats would be empty.

“Oh, it’s controversial, I promise you. It says so right here.” He holds up a copy of _The New York Times,_ open to the Theater Reviews section, and Lilia groans when she sees where’s he’s pointing: Mi-young Soon’s column, Comin’ Up Soon. “Are you ready?”

She’s not sure she wants to hear this. “Have some more steak.” He pushes the plate toward her, clears his throat, and reads:

 

> “Broadway darling Christophe Giacometti, lauded producer of Movement Nouveau Theatre’s _Twelfth Night: I Am Not the Man and Neither Are You_ , is returning to the scene with another controversial twist on tradition: an all-male retelling of romantic ballet _Giselle_. In a recent interview, the Swiss-born actor-turned-producer announced that he was delving into the world of classical ballet with the aid of Lilia Baranovskaya, formerly of the Bolshoi Ballet in Moscow, Russia. While Giacometti has made a name for himself behind the scenes for his cutting-edge, often comedic, contemporary theater productions, such as _My Fair Laddy, One Man/Two Mothers, La Cave aux Folles_ , _Don’t Look Back in Hanger_ , and others, this will be Baranovskaya’s first foray into contemporary theater. After a successful dancing career with the Bolshoi, the former prima ballerina went on to teach and then direct choreography for a number of traditional ballet productions, including _Sheherezade_ for the Bolshoi, _La Sylphide_ for the New York City Ballet, and _Don Quixote_ for the Mariinsky. However, some critics are questioning the wisdom of Baranovskaya’s partnership with the polemic theater producer. Yakov Feltsman, former director of the Bolshoi, has expressed this opinion of his ex-wife’s collaboration with Giacometti: “Such a work as this Swiss and Lilia propose is a criminal violation of a masterpiece. Petipa was a genius and it is thanks to him that Perrot’s choreography survives today. His work is as the work of God: it should be revered.” Another naysayer, who prefers to remain unnamed, from a local publication of high standing that I am not allowed to disclose, stated, “I would expect this sort of thing out of Los Angeles. If their opera produced a Ring Cycle with light sabers and giant puppets, why wouldn’t their ballet do something like this? Next thing you know, we’ll have a circus-themed production of _The Nutcracker_ featuring clowns instead of fairies.” Now that, in this writer’s opinion, would indeed be the stuff of nightmares.
> 
> When asked for his thoughts on the initial criticism of his next work, with its tongue-in-cheek title _Guyselle_ , Giacommetti had this to say:
> 
> “It is not my intent to mock the beautiful, precise art of classical ballet, nor to misrepresent the work of people much more talented than I. On the contrary, my motivation for seeking [Baranovskaya]’s help was to preserve the spirit of the choreography. Who better to guide me than the Bolshoi’s own Giselle? The shows I produce are not about being contrary for the sake of being contrary. Laura de la Iglesia’s adaptation of _Twelfth Night_ is a perfect example of a retelling done out of love for the original, and I hope to achieve the same with _Guyselle_. Lilia has gone to great pains to select a cast of danseurs with the right strength and skill to dance on pointe, and is personally handling their training in an effort to ensure their safety and the show’s success. My goal, which Lilia has been kind enough to indulge, is to shine a light on danseurs in the same way it has been shone on danseuses. Not to contradict existing perceptions, but to expand them. That’s what Movement Nouveau is all about. I want to bring the audience to tears with all the grace and tenderness and beauty the male form can most certainly embody.”
> 
> There’s no doubt that this upcoming production has sparked contentious discussion. But ‘criminal’ or not, the previews are sold out and, I, for one, will be there. If nothing else, I have no objection to a corps of men in tights.”

He hands Lilia the newspaper and, because she’s a glutton for punishment—every ballerina is—she reads it again. “She misspelled _Scheherazade_ ,” Lilia remarks coldly, when she’s through. “Yakov _would_ compare Petipa to God, that imbecil.”

“Perhaps you should send Yakov a thank-you note. And a ticket. For my part, I intend to send one to Celestino Cialdini at _The New Yorker_ and remind him that _he_ was the one who dragged me all the way to Austria to see _La Traviata_ at the Volksoper Wien.”

“Is that who the second quote is from?”

“I’m certain of it,” Chris says, downing the rest of his wine. “Over dinner, we joked about writing our own reviews for that opera. The bit about Los Angeles and the clown edition of _The Nutcracker_ was _my_ invention, that thieving bastard. I’m thinking a bouquet of alpine roses and edelweiss with red clown noses mixed in. I can post about it on Instagram and tag him, of course. ‘Oh, Celestino, so kind of you to remember my joke about the clowns at the Volksoper. Imitation is the highest form of praise.’ What do you think?”

“I hope I’m never on your bad side, Christophe.”

“Nonsense,” he says, handing his credit card to the server. “I don’t have a bad side.”

_____________________________________

They return to the theater just as the last dancers are trickling in. Most are already stretching and warming up again. She and Christophe take their seats, this time at a table on the side of the stage, and are shortly joined by Mila, who gives them a run-down of the revised schedule for the next few days. She also informs them that JJ has been released from the emergency room and will not be rejoining the cast. Then, as if she’s just said the espresso machine broke rather than the nose of her _premier danseur noble_ , Mila asks, “So, what’s next, Madame B.?”

“Well, it's a good thing we have an understudy.”

“Lilia...”

“Not now, Christophe. Everyone,” she addresses the group, “let’s get into places for the start of Act II.” The dancers shuffle and skip about, making their way to their marks. “I want to see—wait a minute, where _is_ Georgi?”

“You sent him home this morning,” Mila reminds her.

“Oh, God help me. I forgot.” Lilia feels an involuntary twinge in her right eyelid. Georgi Popovich had shown up to rehearsal with a red nose and tears streaming from his puffy eyes because his fiancée had left him for a figure skater. It had been very unexpected (or so Georgi claimed), very public, and Lilia had had little choice but to send him home for the day. “Everyone in this production is utterly _useless_.” She gently rubs her eye, trying to stop the twitching. “Will you at least pretend to be concerned?” She snaps at Chris, who finds all of this far too entertaining. “This is your show. My reputation may be ruined, but my career was over anyway. You're just reaching the peak of yours.”

Chris' smile widens. He reaches into his blazer and pulls something out of a pocket, which he then offers to Lilia. It’s…a flask. The man has a flask, silver-plated and embossed with some gaudy design she is afraid to look at closely. “No?” he asks, when Lilia just stares. He shrugs and takes a generous sip, expelling a satisfied sigh. “I don't know much about producing a ballet,” Chris smiles. “But I know about Broadway. I came prepared.”

“This is unacceptable. I should have fired Georgi. We never took sick days when I was a ballerina. We _danced_ our pain.”

“Maybe you should make _him_ Giselle, then,” Christophe suggests.

Victor overhears—which just proves Lilia’s theory that he is just playing dumb most of the time—and doesn't take kindly to the suggestion. “Chris, you traitor,” he whines. “I’m right here.”

“I'm kidding, mon cher!” Christophe calls back. “You are the best Guyselle. No one could replace you, mon ami.” He turns to Lilia, lowering his voice. “I'm not joking. Do whatever you think is best,” he urges. “I trust your judgment.”

It's a testament to Lilia's emotional state that she considers it. Then she remembers Georgi's performance in _Tale of the Sleeping Prince_ , in which he played both the prince and the witch in love with him, and shudders, glad she’d had the wisdom to leave that particular project. “No,” she shakes herself out of her momentary lapse in sanity. “ _No_. All right,” she claps her hands once to get everyone’s attention. They're scattered randomly across the stage, chatting and playing with the phones they most definitely are not supposed to have. _Like children_ , she thinks. _You look away for one second..._ “I want all my Wilis back in formation! Tout de suite. Everyone else, get offstage.”

Lilia runs the Wilis through Act II over and over, until Chris suggests they conclude rehearsal early today. She has no idea what they’re going to tell Karpisek when he asks for an update. She asks, more out of frustration than expecting a serious answer, “I don't suppose anyone else knows the choreography for Albrecht?”

A strangled cry and a scuffle in the rear of the corps draws her attention. Chulanont is engaged in some kind of battle with another dancer—ah, Katsuki, of course, those two are inseparable. The Japanese man has his hand clamped over Chulanont's mouth and is whispering into his friend's ear, eyes uncharacteristically narrowed in threat. Ha. She has never seen Katsuki look angry before; he is usually so skittish and soft-spoken when he isn’t dancing. Lilia is about to call them to order when Victor announces, “Yuri knows the choreography.”

“Don't be ridiculous. Plisetsky can't lift you.”

“Nooo. Yuuri Katsuki,” he clarifies.

Lilia turns to Katsuki, who has released the Thai dancer and is now standing ram-rod straight, pale-faced, with his eyes fixed on the ground.

“How can you be sure?”

“I've—er—seen him dance it,” Victor confirms.

Lilia frowns. “Katsuki, over here,” she orders. He jumps out of his skin and slowly steps out of the lineup, wide-eyed and dilatory. _“Nom de Dieu_ , Katsuki, stop trembling like a virgin on her wedding night, and get over here.” His face pinks, but he rushes over, and Lilia appraises him with a critical eye, noting his stance and height. “He's _shorter_ than you,” she frowns at Victor. “How—”

“But he can lift me,” Victor insists.

“Really? How do you know that?” Mila asks.

“Ahh...” Victor's cheeks turn the color of beetroot. “Well...”

“ _Don't_ answer that,” Lilia orders, realizing that she does not, in fact, know _everything_ that goes on in her company.

Katsuki curses in his native tongue and buries his face in his hands. It does nothing to hide the complementary bortsch-like flush that spreads to his ears and neck. A titter of laughter spreads through the rest of the corps de ballet, and Chulanont cackles with glee. Victor practically _flutters_ up to Katsuki, like a butterfly landing on a flower petal, and wraps an arm around him. Lilia scoffs, wondering why he couldn’t have moved that way with Leroy, and makes a concerted effort to ignore the soft words Victor offers in comfort. She rather sympathizes with the retching Yuri Plisetsky.

Lilia orders the cast to cool down while she figures out how to proceed. She and Christophe have removed to the middle of the orchestra section, discussing their diminishing options. “It's rather too late to audition a principal dancer. This is going to reflect poorly on us,” Lilia laments. And Victor is being so difficult, pouting because she shot down his suggestion. _“_ _But Lilia—er, Madame Baranovskaya, my Yuuri is special! You haven't really seen him dance._ _”_ She turns to Christophe with a sigh. “I feel I owe you an apology. I am responsible for keeping the dancers in line. I must be losing my touch, after all. My dancers at the Bolshoi were never so...so...bah!” She gives up trying to find a single word that conveys _exasperating_ and _rebellious_ and other less polite words too vulgar to voice.

Beside her, Chris emits the most exultant laugh. “You have nothing to apologize for, my dear madame. I just expected a cast of professional ballet dancers to be less dramatic than the more eclectic mix of performers in my usual Broadway productions. But this is all very _Phantom of the Opera_ , isn't it?” He puts on an exaggerated British accent, “Christine Daaé could sing it, sir!”

“Oh, shut up,” Lilia grouses. “And give me that thing,” she puts her hand out for the flask. Christophe's eyebrows tilt in surprise, but he hands it over wordlessly. Lilia takes a drink of what turns out to be a very smooth scotch. “When in Rome, as they say. But don't be so complacent, Christophe,” Lilia advises. “Katsuki has never had a lead role at this level of performance. I almost didn't cast him, but he's a protegé of a dear friend and she would never falsely recommend someone. He's practically flawless as part of the corps, but he was rather a mess during his solo audition.”

“So you don't trust Victor's opinion?”

“Love is blind.”

“I disagree. Have you _seen_ Katsuki?”

Lilia deliberately rolls her eyes at him, hard enough that it hurts. “That has nothing to do with dancing. JJ has excellent qualifications. Georgi has much more experience and has held major roles before.” _However questionable,_ she adds to herself.

“JJ is down for the count,” Christophe waves a hand in dismissal. “And you have been grilling Victor anyway because, let's be honest, his technical mastery is lacking its usual evocativeness. He simply isn’t good at pretending to be in love—at least not with Leroy. I agree that Georgi can be a bit much, and his current emotional state makes him less than dependable. Katsuki, on the other hand...” He gestures toward the stage where Victor is “helping” the Japanese man stretch, and the rest of the cast is just gawking, especially Seung-gil’s understudy, Mi...Minami. He looks rather crushed, like when she ordered him to dye his hair a color that occurs in nature if he wanted a part. “Minami,” she yells, “posture!” The dancer starts in surprise and straightens up, stammering an apology. “My point is,” Chris continues, “Yuuri Katsuki has every reason to perform.”

“Are you actually suggesting I gamble the success of your first ballet production, however experimental and avante garde it may be, on an unknown dancer—”

“A _talented_ and _motivated_ unknown dancer.”

“—to exploit a love affair that could end at any moment, for the sake of verisimilitude?”

“Let's say,” Christophe laughs and points to the stage, “that art imitates life.” The dancers have cleared off to stage left and stage right to create space for Katsuki and Victor, who are in the middle of the pas de deux. Katsuki places his hands on Victor's waist and lifts without hesitation, while Victor quickly moves his working leg through an attitude devant, arms arching into fifth position. They move through the steps, Victor hopping with a little too much joy for someone who's supposed to be dead, and Katsuki lifting again and again, as if the fair-haired Russian were an actual spirit instead of flesh and bone. There's no music playing, but Lilia can almost _hear_ it anyway. It's in the way Katsuki moves, a natural rhythm that Victor resonates with, and she can see the striking pair they might make. Then Victor abandons the choreography and twirls around Yuuri on pointe, pecking him on the cheeks and lips as the whim strikes, until the giggling Japanese man clasps him at the waist. She hears a soft admonishment of _“_ _Vitya, be serious_ _,_ ” but the look of mutual adoration the danseurs share between them is—

“STOP BEING GROSS, BOTH OF YOU,” shouts Yuri Plisetsky.

Lilia couldn't agree more.

“I don't think that's ending anytime soon,” Christophe observes. “And just think of the b-roll we can collect for the promos! Love on stage and off. It's so romantic.”

“So, yes, exploit their love affair.”

“I'm saying, do whatever it takes to save the show.”

Lilia's eyelid continues to tick.

_____________________________________

“Go home, Vitya.”

“But Lilia,” Victor protests, like he does every time he doesn't get his way, “we're each other's inspiration. I need to be here.”

“Go get some rest, Vitya. Katsuki and I have work to do.”

“It's okay, Vitya,” Katsuki assures him. His voice is soft but, somehow, more assertive. “I'll be okay.”

“So,” Lilia begins, when Victor at last departs after many unnecessary kisses and hugs and lamentations of “ _but I'll miss you_ ,” until she finally threatens to ban Makkachin from all rehearsals if he doesn't leave. “You want to dance with Victor.”

“Yes,” Katsuki replies.

“Why?”

“It's always been my dream,” he admits, “to dance on the same stage.” He's looking straight ahead, rather than back at her, but his voice is steady and his shoulders are back. _It’s an improvement_ , she thinks; he often curls in on himself, like leaves on a dying rose.

“I appreciate your candor. Show me. I think you know what I want to see.”

He does.

It’s good. It’s not enough. “Again.”

He does. He loosens up after a few more tries, and Lilia begins to see something of what Victor said earlier. “ _He makes music with his body_.” She thinks maybe, just maybe, she can work with that. “Again, Katsuki. Make me believe you’re dancing to your death.”

An hour later, Lilia tells Victor to stop hiding behind the curtains because his pathetic sighing is distracting _her_.

_____________________________________

The previews take place.

Reviews are mixed.

“Bonjour, mes amis. I know how much you hate tablets, Lilia, so I printed these out for you.” Christophe saunters in with a stack of reviews before the start of their next rehearsal and places them on a table in front of Lilia and Josef. He sits down next to them, takes a sip of his cappuccino and begins a run-down of early feedback. “The critics for the most part applaud the choreography and Nikiforov’s performance, but think Katsuki looked stiff. The most praise was given to Plisetsky’s Queen Myrtha.”

“Of course,” Lilia says, “it’s Yuri. He’s a god-damned prodigy.”

“America is rubbing off on you, Lilia,” Josef observes. “ _Rag Time News_ ,” he waves the paper in his hand, “says one of the soloists was technically accomplished but had, and I quote, ‘a face like a Thwomp from _Super Mario World_ , which was even funnier because another soloist looked like a _Dragon Quest_ slime.’ What does that even mean?”

“That would be Mr. Lee and Mr. Chulanont, respectively,” Lilia informs him, after Chris shows her what those…things are on his phone.

"Who wrote this garbage?" Josef grumbles. "Oh, Cao Bin. Fucking millennials."

“ _La vache_ ,” Christophe groans. “Our friend Miss Soon witnessed Katsuki’s fall.”

“Katsuki fell?” A heavy silence falls over them at the cutting tension in Josef’s voice.

Lilia winces. Christophe shifts in his seat under the weight of the theater director’s glare. It’s the first sign of discomfort she’s seen him show. “Ah, well…just the one time?”

One time too many, Lilia knows. “Katsuki is aware of how much depends on his performance. He was nervous.”

“ _I’m_ nervous,” Josef retorts. He pinches the bridge of his nose, pushing his glasses up toward his forehead. “And you still believe the boy can do it?”

Piqued, Lilia returns his scowl in kind. Who does Karpisek think she is? Dance is her life. “I know he can.”

“Then fix it.”

_____________________________________

Dance _is_ her life, so Lilia knows the ensuing conversation with Christophe is the best course of action. She should have made it a stipulation from the beginning, but on paper, it had seemed to be a smaller-scale production.

She makes a long-distance phone call and explains her predicament, confessing, “I took too much upon myself, I think. As the Americans say, ‘bit off more than I can chew.’ I thought, at my age, I was above such arrogance, but…”

“You’re too hard on yourself—and don’t bring up age, a true ballerina is ageless. Didn’t you say, ‘the attempt of new things is essential to the cycle of reinvention’? Here, I’ll give you my worst Russian accent: ‘ _Zhe day I stop rreinventing myself is zhe day I hang up my pointe shoes_.’”

Lilia laughs. It had been easy to say that when she was still dancing in her prime. “I think this time, my pointe shoes may hang me. But thank you. You’ve reminded me why I agreed to this.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning, then?”

“Thank you.” Lilia has never meant anything so much.

“It’s my honor. Send me the address and the choreography, so I can study it on the plane.”

_____________________________________

 

When Minako Okukawa arrives the next morning, Lilia leaves most of the dancers in her care, and Japan’s greatest ballerina puts them through their paces in no time. The sound of someone else yelling orders is music to her ears, and the smell of hard-earned sweat is satisfying to her senses.

Meanwhile, she takes Lee and Chulanont aside. “Seung-gil, you will study Phichit. See his natural facial expression? I don’t want you to smile, just…look less like you stepped in someone else’s dog droppings. And Phichit,” she says, turning to the other dancer. “You study Seung-gil. Try to remember that you’re a deadly nymph who died of a broken heart, and not a sunflower. Now, both of you, go stand in front of a mirror and practice. I want you dancing with matching expressions by the end of the day.”

She oversees Yuri’s practice for an hour and surprises him with a quick hug, which he accepts with all the grace of a fainting goat, because she’s so happy she has one dancer she can count on. Two, she decides, after watching Altin for a while. She tells them to keep at it, and then it’s time.

“Yuuri Katsuki, come with me. Yes, Vitya, I know. You too,” she rolls her eyes when the silver-haired dancer starts to pout again. “You’re going to help.” She may as well put him to work, since Victor is going to be wherever Katsuki is, whether she wills it or not. “From the top.”

_____________________________________

 

The day of the premiere arrives. For Lilia, it begins with an unexpected discovery that leaves her feeling nostalgic and off-balance the rest of the day.

She and Josef go up to the theater’s highest balcony for one last view of the set from above, only to interrupt a tête-à-tête. That in itself is not a shock, but when the two figures pull apart from a tender kiss, she least expects to find Yuri with Mr. Altin. Josef turns around post-haste muttering something about the sound designer, but Lilia is overcome; she sometimes forgets how much Yuri has grown. The Kazakh has the grace to look sheepish, but he says nothing. Yuri explodes into accusations of spying and demands to know if “that pig” snitched on him, “And don’t tell that pervert about this!” Lilia isn’t sure if he means Victor or Christophe. Altin gives him a gentle warning of “Yura,” and a look from him is all it takes for Yuri to deflate. He grows quiet, but his eyes glisten with a mix of defiance and fear as he pleads that she not to tell his mother because while he hasn’t lied about anything he hasn’t really talked to her about it. “Please?” This may be the first time Lilia has heard Yuri Plisetsky use that word without being prompted.

“First of all, I would never. Second…” Lilia dithers, unsure of whether or not she should say anything, but decides Yuri's performance is more important. She can't have this weighing him down, so she tells him the truth. “Yuri…we’ve all suspected since you were a boy. When you were six years old, you met Vitya at your cousin’s wedding and declared that you were going to marry him when you grew up.” The bug-eyed expression on Yuri’s face is priceless and, as Lilia walks away to continue her conversation with Josef, she hears him exhorting a chuckling Altin to take that information to his grave. “Promise me you’ll never tell Victor. Promise!”

The rest of the day is a disaster.

Some of the lights need replacing, even though they just tested them last night. The third violinist is stuck behind a car accident on Highway 9 in Yonkers. Mickey accuses the trombone player of flirting with Sara and the ensuing scuffle overturns two music stands and breaks the celloist's bow before the other musicians can pull them apart. Bella volunteers to sort out the sheet music to avoid any more confrontations, and Josef sets Mickey on the most ornery, undesirable tasks he can think of, including keeping Christophe supplied with espresso. Peeved at the inferior coffee and the growing scowl on the Italian’s face, the producer sends him off to purchase a new bow from a specific shop on the other side of town. No one mentions the fact that the celloist has a spare.

The backstage area is no better. Dancers are warming up and doing final run-throughs. Georgi’s costume gets caught and torn on a loose nail. Chulanont is out of control; he’s flitting around like a hummingbird, from one place to the next, taking photos and selfies from every angle and in every pose he can think of. He ends up breaking a chair, which is serious since there isn’t much scenery or props to begin with, but the props master repairs it before Josef hears about it—the man is already on edge, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief periodically.

Lilia's biggest concern by far is Katsuki. The dancer had seemed relatively calm in the morning and had even looked a little excited. But as the day wore on, he took on a pale, sickly color and his eyes glazed over, unfocused.

Lilia decides to give him space, trusts Victor to handle it. This turns out to be a mistake.

Everything is being captured on camera by a tech crew, who are also asking dancers questions about their preparations. Victor preens in front of the camera and tries to pull Katsuki along with him, but the Japanese man flees when Victor starts praising “his” Yuuri's dancing. Chulanont finds him two hours later in a utility closet. Minako abandons the corps to warm up at their own discretion and dusts Katsuki off before guiding him through some relaxation exercises. Victor offers to help and wilts like a hydrangea in midsummer under Minako’s scathing glare. Christophe distracts the camera crew with interviews of music director Ketty Abelashvili and the orchestra—which is a relief, because Yuri Plisetsky spends the next 10 minutes yelling at a long-faced, contrite Victor, proving himself to be a true student of Yakov Feltsman. Lilia turns a blind eye because she’s supervising Nekola’s last-minute costume adjustments and needs to make sure her dancers can still move.

A cry of “Phichit, no!” from inside the dressing room draws her away from the refitting of Georgi’s doublet. De la Iglesia gallops out of the room like a horse at the Kentucky Derby, a phone clutched in his hand. Chulanont is on his tail with a crazed gleam in his eyes. With a cry of, “My followers need more Yurio,” the Thai dancer launches into a cabriole and tackles De la Iglesia. A warning from Guang Hong Ji has Mila wresting the phone from Chulanont’s grasp just in time to prevent Yuri Plisetsky’s rant from going public. “That’s it! Give ’em up,” she orders, and Bella and Sara confiscate everyone’s devices. “Clearly, I can’t trust any of you.” Lilia copes with all of this by maintaining a visage of stern disapproval, lips either firmly sealed or snapping at everyone to “start behaving like the consummate professionals you’re supposed to be!”

The next time she sees Katsuki, his bottom lip is bleeding from how badly he’s chewed on it. Then the quiet argument he and Victor have been having in the wings turns into a shouting match.

“I don’t know what else to do! I’m no good with people crying in front of me. Should I just kiss you?”

Lilia wants to throw something at him, really hard.

“No! Just have more faith than I do that I’ll do well! You don’t have to say anything, just stay by me!”

Everyone in hearing range stops what they’re doing and stares. In an unexpected show of protectiveness, Yuri starts threatening everyone, cast and crew alike, to mind their own business. “Move it, assholes!” He shoves Minami and a few others away when they don't move fast enough.

Lilia thinks it’s really a shame that this show is going to be the end of Yuri Plisetsky’s career, with the way it's falling apart. Such promise, such fire. Such a gift, gone to waste.

Then Victor wraps a sobbing Yuuri in his arms and holds him, probably making all sorts of saccharin promises Lilia is much better off not hearing. Even Yuri seems relieved, grimace notwithstanding, when Victor is spotted dabbing his overpriced lip balm onto the Japanese dancer's lips. In the end, a lot of kissing takes place anyway.

Too much kissing. Lilia orders Yuri Plisetsky to keep the two leads in his sight at all times.

“Vitya,” Lilia threatens, when Victor whines about helping Yuuri relax. “I absolutely forbid you from doing _anything_ that will tire Katsuki out before the performance. Do I make myself clear?”

She doesn’t wait for an answer. She still has a show to run.

_____________________________________

 

It's only when she’s staring at the playbill in her hand, as the curtain rises, that she realizes: Christophe never changed the name of the show.

_____________________________________

Victor soars over the stage—and if he’s too coquettish for a timid peasant, at least no one gets kicked in the face. Katsuki dances his longing for Victor and Yuri bourrées across the stage with eerie perfection. His eyes glow with bloodthirsty glee as he makes Katsuki dance, and Lilia can almost feel his life waning before Victor intercedes.

Everyone is stupidly in love.

The lights fade to black, and the packed theater applauds with unexpected enthusiasm. Christophe kisses her on the cheek and speaks congratulations into her ear over the noise. Josef, sitting on Christophe’s other side, leans over and shouts, “That was good, kids! I think we’re going to be okay.” On Lilia’s right, Minako squeezes her hand. “That was brilliant.” Then the whistling starts and it draws their attention to the stage. “Are they really—”

“Yes,” Lillia answers.

 

If Victor wants to spend his curtain call kissing Yuuri Katsuki in front of a theater full of New Yorkers, that’s his business.

_____________________________________

After a short reception for the patrons in honor of the premiere, Christophe takes her out to a high-end hotel off of Forty-Somethingth Street. Black columns and chic but comfortable furniture adorn the lounge, dimly lit by wall sconces and minimalistic drop chandeliers. After the weltering din of the theater, the _sotto_ tunes of the solo pianist are a welcome accompaniment to the clink of ice in glass and subdued conversation in the half-empty lounge. Over one too many celebratory drinks, Chris asks again, “So, do you regret accepting my offer?”

“No,” Lilia admits. “We still have the rest of the run, Victor needs to remember he’s playing a shy maiden, and you’d better pray to your deity of choice that Katsuki doesn’t get injured because this would never work with Georgi. There’s so much that can go wrong, but…for now, I feel alive. Dead tired,” she laughs, “but alive. I'm glad I did this.”

“Great!” Chris smiles. “So how do you feel about helping me with _Romeo and Julio_?”

 

_FIN._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I'm pretty new to writing fanfiction, so if there's a tag you think I should add, feel free to let me know.
> 
> Christophe's body of work as an actor includes major roles in a selection of the most influential American plays, including _Little Death of a Salesman_ , _The Man Who Came at Dinner_ , _Moaning Becomes Electra_ , and _Tomcat on a Hot Tin Roof_. 
> 
> (I can't stop. Send help.) 
> 
> Everyone is 18+ and a bit closer in skill than in canon. Victor is still the best thanks to his experience and broad emotional range, but Yuri will probably outshine him in time. Yuuri is Yuuri, the good and the bad. 
> 
> As in canon, there is no homophobia in this universe. Yuri just hasn't talked about it.
> 
> I’m not sure this deserves a Mature rating for such a brief sexual innuendo but better safe than sorry? 
> 
> Fun Facts?  
> 1\. _Giselle_ : I was lucky enough to catch a performance by the Mariinsky Ballet and it was amazing. It was eerie watching Queen Myrtha, all dressed in white and draped in a long veil, move across the forest setting on pointe the whole time. She really did look like she was floating.
> 
> 2\. The Ring Cycle: I enjoy opera. I sat through all 15 hours of LA Opera's _Der Ring des Nibelungen_ because I saw the light sabers and thought it was going to be crazy, because Valkyries and the twilight of the gods! It received a lot of praise but, to me, it felt like something out of an art student's Tim Burton-inspired nightmares.
> 
> 3\. _La Traviata_ : The production with clown makeup at the Volksper Wien was a real thing. _La Traviata_ is great sans the clowns.


End file.
